


Talking to my Angel

by helsinkibaby



Category: Picket Fences
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fix-It, Mentions of Racism, Romance, post ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-19
Updated: 2003-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his talk from Judge Bone, Littleton receives a visit from Max.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking to my Angel

**Author's Note:**

> post ep to "Enemy Lines"

There are papers on my desk that I should be reading; reports that need summarising, arguments that need to be written, a Supreme Court case that needs preparing. There are all these things that I need to do, yet I'm sitting here, staring into space, thinking about all that's gone on here over the past few days. 

I was happy here. 

Not that it was the life that I'd planned for myself, not that it was easy for me to settle into this town. I was acutely aware that I was in the minority, that there weren't very many black families in the locality, but I was ok with that. I never felt that there was any prejudice directed towards me or Cara. 

Not until Judge Nance directed that students should be bussed from Green Bay to Rome, and vice versa. 

That decision opened a can of worms, one that caused the sands of my life to shift wildly underneath me, made me considering resigning my position here. 

Anyone who knows me would tell you that that's not the least bit like me. I grew up in a gang neighbourhood in Chicago, went to college, law school, worked in a good firm. I've encountered more than my fair share of obstacles and I never ran away from any of them, never even considered it. 

Not that Judge Henry Bone was going to let me away with it, oh no. He kicked my ass good in his chambers today, told me that he wasn't going to let me get away with running and hiding, that those Green Bay kids needed a role model, and that it was me. He wasn't content to leave it there though, told me that not only was I a role model for the black kids, but for the whole of the town. That I was the moral centre of the place, or something like that. 

I was too amazed to laugh, still am, but the idea strikes me as insane. I'm not a role model, I'm just an ordinary guy who's trying to do his job, raise his daughter in a world that's not making it easy for him, that's all. 

Me, a role model?

My gaze drifts to the photographs on my desk, to one in particular, of a happy family of three. It was taken on Cara's third birthday, and the three of us are sitting on the couch, Cara on Deanna's lap, my arms around both of them, and we're all laughing and smiling at the camera. I remember that Cara didn't want to have her photograph taken, she wanted to play with her new toys, and we had to promise her that we'd let her have ice cream after the picture got taken. We kept our word, and gave her a huge bowl, most of which naturally ended up over her face and dress, not to mention over the kitchen table. It didn't seem to matter that day though. All I remember are the smiles. 

I reach out now and pick up the photograph, tracing the outline of her face with one finger as a pang of longing for her sweeps over me. Some days, I get by all right, get through the day just fine, with only the odd thought of her. Other days, like today, I can barely talk, barely think for missing her, for wanting to talk to her, to hold her, to have her hold me. 

"Why did you have to leave us?" I find myself saying, my voice seeming loud in the emptiness of my office.

It was so silly. It was one of our traditions, something we did every Sunday afternoon without fail. We would always do something as a family, the three of us, whatever fancy took us. This particular Sunday, we were going to watch a movie together. It was a cold, dark, rainy day, the kind where we loved to curl up together on the couch, watch the images dance by on the television screen, Cara playing on the rug, or maybe even watching the film, or part of it, with us. 

Except I forgot to pick up the ice cream, and a movie was no good without ice cream. 

I told her that I'd go to the store and get some, that since I forgot it in the first place, it should be me that went. She told me that I'd had a long week, that I'd been working on a big case, that I should stay home, relax, let her go. 

She always did try to take care of me. 

And like I always did, I let her. 

The store wasn't that far away, but I still wasn't alarmed when she was later home than she'd said. I figured that she'd met someone, got talking to them and lost all track of time. Let's face it, if there was one thing she could do, it was talk. I didn't get scared until the doorbell rang, and I went to open it and saw a police officer standing there. 

In that instant, I knew that my wife wasn't coming home again. 

I remember telling Cara, trying to explain to her. I remember my mother coming to the house, crying in my arms. I remember going to bed that night and not sleeping, just lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking that if I stayed awake for long enough, she'd come home. 

The next few days are a blur, and I can hardly remember the funeral at all. Mom was great, watching Cara, holding things together when I couldn't. She did everything she could to help us, and I don't think that she really understood when I told her that I was taking a job in a small town in Wisconsin. How could I explain to her that I had to get away from the places that Deanna and I had spent all our time in, that I needed to make as clean a break as I possibly could, and that besides, it would be better for Cara to grow up in a small town, rather than a big city? She accepted it, knowing that I needed to do it, for me, for both of us, but I don't think she ever really understood. 

Right now, I'm wondering if she was right. 

The light knock on my door startles me, and I look up to see a familiar red head peeking through the crack. I try to keep my face neutral, because the truth is that she's the last person I want to talk to right now. Max and I have had a somewhat fractious relationship right from the start, based entirely on mutual antagonism and irritation, but over the last few weeks, I've been wondering if it's not something more than that. On reflection, I've found that she gets under my skin, and not only that, but she does it without even trying. The last person to do so this effortlessly was Deanna, and that notion scares me more than I’m willing to admit to her, or even to myself. 

Which might be another reason why I was so disillusioned with Rome, Wisconsin today. Not only because of the racism that appears to have sprung up all of a sudden, but because the one woman that's caught my interest since Deanna bought into it. Her arguments for why we shouldn't date one another were so inane that I wanted to lose my temper to throw something at her, but I didn't. I just stood there and listened to her, tried to reason with her, but I'm not so sure it worked. I know she said that she'd go out with me, that she wanted to, but it looked far more to me like she was only saying it to be stubborn, to go against the grain. 

I don't want her dating me just to thumb her nose at everyone. 

I want her to date me because she wants to date me. 

She steps fully into the office when she sees me looking at her, giving me a tight, uncertain grin. She's changed out of her uniform, into jeans and a white sweater, but the same doubt that I saw earlier on hasn't left her eyes. "Is it ok if I'm here?" she asks softly, and I must look surprised at the question, because she elaborates, her eyes darting around nervously. "I thought I heard you talking to someone…"

"Just my angel." The words come unbidden from my lips, and it's her turn to blink in surprise. I hold the photo up in illustration, and she frowns, coming closer. I hold it out to her, letting her take it, and her eyes light up in recognition when she sees Cara. Then she squints, bringing the picture closer to her face, staring at Deanna. 

"This is your wife?" she asks, and I nod. "She's beautiful."

Her voice is soft, awed even, and I find myself smiling. "Yeah, she was." We met in college, and the first thing I noticed about her was her smile. It took me three weeks to get up the courage to go talk to her, and another week after that to ask her out. One of the questions she asked me on our first date was what the hell took me so long. 

Max hands the photo back to me, the look on her face even more uncertain now than it was when she walked in the door. "You must miss her a lot."

I’m not sure if that's a statement or a question, but either way, I nod. "I do." I put the picture back down and stare up at her, resting my arms and palms flat on the table. She doesn't speak, and once more, I find myself speaking without conscious thought. "We were college sweethearts. Met our freshman year, got married right after graduation. She taught school, I went to law school, graduated from there…she would read my papers, quiz me on whatever I was studying…I don't think she even understood half of it, but she always told me that she could've done as well on the bar exam as I did. She probably could have too…she was sharp as a tack." I focus on Max again, see that she's sat down across from me, and is staring at me in the dim light. "She was a lot like you," I say, and her eyes widen in surprise. 

"Me?" she whispers, amazement ringing in her tone. 

I nod. "You're both strong. Independent. You don't suffer fools gladly." I smile, and she does too. "Not afraid to speak your mind, even if you think people are going to disagree with you… and you stand up to me. Make me think." My gaze flicks down to the photograph, then back up to Max. 

"That's the nicest compliment I've ever been given," she tells me. 

"Those are the things that I loved about her," I find myself telling her. "And I guess that's why I'm so attracted to you." I realise how that sounds, and continue, "But it's not just about that."

"I know." She interrupts me, her voice gentle, but confident. "And I didn't think it was."

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I like you Max," I tell her. "I like talking to you. Spending time with you. I'd like to do it a little more… see what happens." After our conversation in my office today, I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm wasting my time saying this to her, but I say it anyway. She deserves to have all the information before she makes her decision. 

"When I was in here earlier," she begins, speaking slowly, haltingly, "I told you that I didn't want to go out with you because I was afraid of how it would look. Because I was afraid of what people would say. That's not entirely true." She inhales deeply, her shoulders rising with the effort, and she looks up at the ceiling. "I have really lousy luck with men John. Truly terrible. Every time I get close to someone, something happens to mess it up. And I'm afraid that that's going to happen with us too."

I raise my eyebrows, not having expected that. I know she's had bad luck with men, I hear the same gossip everyone else does. I also know that she's lonely, and I don't need gossip to tell me that. I know it because I see in her what I see in myself. 

"Then I was in here, " she continues, "And I was telling you all the reasons that I couldn't date you, and they sounded so stupid, even to me. I got so angry with myself, and I told myself that I could do this, that we could go out. But I still couldn't tell you why. So I made this excuse about not letting this town get to me, told you that I wanted to go out with you… I guess you thought I was just being stubborn."

I nod. "I did."

She shakes her head. "It's not like that John. I don't want to go out with you because I'm trying to prove something to the town. And I don't want to not go out with you because I'm scared, or because our kids might have problems down the line…" She smiles at me, and shrugs self-consciously. "I want to go out with you because I like you." There's another little shrug with that admission. "I like talking to you. Spending time with you." I'm smiling now too as she echoes my earlier words, and that makes a grin spread across her face. "I wouldn't mind doing it a little more," she concludes. 

We spend a long minute sitting there like that, staring at one another across the table, until I nod. "I think I can handle that," I tell her, and a laugh bubbles up and escapes her. 

"Good," she says, then says it again. "Good." She runs her hands up and down her thighs, then stands. "So… maybe dinner? Thursday?"

I look up at her, then glance at my watch. "How about a drink?" I ask. I have a little time before I have to get home to Cara. Granted, I should be using it to work on the Supreme Court case, but I can do that after I put Cara to bed. Who needs sleep anyway?

"Right now?" she asks in surprise, checking her own watch. "You don't need to get home?"

"I've time for you," I tell her, and she holds my gaze before grinning again. 

"I'd love to," she says, waiting for me at the door as I put on my jacket, joining her at the door and flipping off the light. 

We're standing in the doorway of my office when she puts her hand on my elbow, looks at me with uncertainty in her eyes. "You know there's gonna be talk, right?" she asks, and I take a moment to look down at her, consider if the talk is worth it, if we really want to do this. 

I see the decision in her eyes the same instant that I feel it in mine. "Let them talk," I say, and she nods as we walk down the hallway out into the night.


End file.
